Free Objection by Sawyer Bennett Page A

about wanting to
travel the world as a wildlife photographer and not wanting to be
pinned down. I thought that was weird… seeing as how I don’t
even think he owned a camera.
    So I said goodbye to
the Douche, immersed myself in misery and work, and yes, in a night
of complete drunkenness, agreed to Macy’s idea that I join One
Night Only … at her expense, of course.
    By the time I woke
up the next morning, with a raging headache and puke in my throat,
Macy had me signed up. A simple physical and blood test later, and I
was a full-fledged member.
    Now I have a date
with Number 134—a tall, gorgeous hunk of a man that is
supposedly going to put my battery-operated boyfriend to shame
tonight. I made sure my application said I was only interested in
vanilla sex, and I apparently was matched to someone with the same
tastes.
    Smacking my lips
together, I turn to Macy once more for her final assessment. She
gives me the critical eye, running her eyes over me slowly while she
taps her finger to her chin. “You are definitely one-hundred
percent, perfectly fuckable.”
    Rolling my eyes at
her, I pick up my clutch purse and double check my contents. Credit
card, iPhone, lip gloss, and Mace.
    All a girl could
ever wish for on a date.
    Date.
    Funny word.

Holy shit!
    This is it.
    No turning back.
    I walk into
Sullivan’s, a swanky bar on the Upper East Side, where Number
134 suggested we meet. Our communications so far have been limited to
one encrypted, anonymous email from Number 134 (him) to Number 3498
(me) setting the date, time, and place. If our membership numbers
have been assigned chronologically, then he’s clearly been in
the system for a while. He said he’d arrange for the hotel so I
didn’t have to worry about it.
    As pre-arranged, I
went up to the bar and took a seat, ordering a white wine from the
bartender. I arrived almost half an hour early, hoping to get one
drink under my belt to calm the nerves that were jangling around
inside of me.
    I want to do this.
Despite my hesitations, I really, really want to do this. But it
still doesn’t stop me from being nervous over meeting Number
134.
    He told me to call
him Mike, but that’s not really his name. Everything is about
the anonymity, and I told him my name was Stella. I doubt we’d
even use the fake names we gave each other. It’s not like we’d
be having any deep conversation tonight, and I have no plans to
reveal any more identifying information about myself.
    As soon as the
bartender sets my wine in front of me, I hear, “I’ll pay
for that.”
    It’s on my
lips to decline… to say that I’m waiting on someone, but
when I turn to the voice, I’m assaulted by the decadence that
is none other than Number 134 himself.
    He’s even more
beautiful than his picture, radiating pure magnetism and sex appeal.
He’s tall, which is good, because I am, too. But I can tell
he’ll tower over my five-nine frame by several inches.
    Dark brown hair
cropped in a fashionable, yet short style, along with an elegant,
dark gray suit. I peg him as a banker or financier. His eyes are
golden-brown, more golden than anything. He’s smiling at me in
a completely relaxed, but I’m here to fuck you senseless, kind
of way, and it manages to show the two dimples he sports on either
side of his full lips.
    If what’s in
his pants is as magnificent as what’s on the outside, I’m
going to go to sleep a very happy girl tonight. He’s utterly
perfect. Exactly what I need.
    Number 134… I
mean Mike… hands over his credit card to the bartender,
telling him that he’ll have a Jameson neat. I’m
surprised, because I didn’t think we’d be staying here
long. Idle chitchat, schmoozing, or wooing is not required tonight.
Us sleeping together is pretty much a done deal.
    Turning to me, Mike
sticks out his hand. “Mike… Number 134 at your service,
Stella.”
    Giving a light
laugh, I place my palm against his to shake, but he lifts my hand to
his lips to brush a light kiss